Boxed Wine

This weekend, we attended a Labor Day party at a neighbor's house. Before we left home, my husband and I reviewed the list of rules with our kids. Due to an unfortunate oversight, we forgot to include "Do Not Consume Alcoholic Beverages" on the list of no-nos.

As the only adult party guests who were not either wearing t-shirts that said "One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor!" or acting out the behavior described on them, my husband and I were relegated to the kitchen, where we were immediately converted into wait staff. Tim was put in charge of grilling an assortment of Italian meats that he could neither name nor identity, while I was asked to carry a number of peculiar salads to the serving table. I decided to arrange the salads alphabetically, just for fun. Just as I was aligning the serving spoon for what appeared to be a beet salad with the tongs wedged amongst a mound of overcooked broccoli, I caught of a glimpse of my three preschoolers filling up their cups at the beverage table. That they were getting their tenth drink in ten minutes wasn't the problem; what they were drinking, however, was.

"Ah!" I screeched, batting the red plastic cup out of my five year-old daughter's hand. "Don't drink that!"

It was too late. Cortlen and Kellen's cups were nearly empty as well.

"How much of this did you drink?" I asked them, pointing at the boxed wine. The estimates I received varied from the volume of shot glass to the volume of a swimming pool.

"The kids are drunk," I announced to my husband. After we congratulated ourselves on being such good parents, my husband and I decided that the only appropriate thing to do was ask our neighbors where they got their inspirational t-shirts, and if they came in children's sizes as well.